Keep Rising

Greetings from Mile 12,142 --

My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.

I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!

Remember Angry Cookies?  

And Cookie Apocalypse?
And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something?

Whenever I faced a tough patch, baking always helped get me through. 

I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- hobbling around in a "boot" and on crutches.  

Everything is a multistep process these days:  getting ready for work, collecting the mail, traveling from Point A to Point B.  I've become better at planning, more practiced at problem-solving.  Steadier with a backpack.  

But still, it's exhausting.  And laced with loss.

I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.

I had written off baking completely.  

It just wasn't worth the energy.

Two weeks after my dad's funeral, my mom and I travel to Vermont.  

I plan the trip and do the driving.
Mom is the Sherpa, lugging everything except my backpack.  

(She's small but mighty!) 

We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made dozens of times over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.

In Danbury, we pass his favorite stop, the Blue Colony Diner.  We start to text him a photo, and then realize we can't.  When we reach Springfield, we want to tell him we've arrived.  The car feels empty without him.  

This trip is different.  Everything is different.

Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.

Instead of connecting to I-89 at White River Junction, we drive 20 more miles up I-91 to a place I've never been but have always aspired to go...

King Arthur Baking Company --
the headquarters!

To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. 

The parking spaces are close. 
The doors are automatic.  
The restrooms are roomy.  
The floors are smooth.

That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!

I feel absolutely welcome!!

The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...

KEEP RISING.

It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :)  

We treat ourselves to true Vermont fare:  fig and brie on a homemade baguette, a fall salad with maple dressing, steaming cups of cider with biodegradable lids.  

Then we poke around the factory store.  It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread.  

Mom does all the carting and carrying!

I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while.  We both are.  But it's not exhausting.  

It's renewing.

Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters.  

They don't even notice the delay!

Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.

At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.

I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.
Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients.  

Stand when I need more leverage.

I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...

It's just different. 

I plan out each step.  Try to be organized.  Stand up.  Sit down.  Stand up again.

It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting.  

It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I want to do, not have to do.

The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.   

I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.

The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.

I measure and stir and crack a few eggs.  
Drip oil down my sleeve.  

Drop wrappers on the floor.
Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.

My hands are busy.  My mind is focused.

Disorder becomes order.  

And that mess on the kitchen counter?  

It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.

A pumpkin-cranberry bread
to share, gratefully, with friends.

Making time for who and what we love is always worth the trip.

KEEP RISING. 

Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Bake on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Recipe here:  Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread

Taste is Travel

Café Tolia is the newest spot in our Philly neighborhood.  

It's spacious and warm with exposed brick and white-washed walls.  The owners are friendly and welcoming.  Elbe bakes the pastries.  (I'm not sure how.  She must get up at 2 AM!)  

The walls are covered with black and white photos, also by Elbe, of their family's travels and transitions through Europe.

I'm with my friend and walking buddy Mark.  We arrive just minutes after they open.

When we walk together, Mark always gets a cappuccino and I always get a coffee.  We always take them to go, and we always keep walking.   I always eat fruit and yogurt when I get home.

But today, Mark suggests trying a pastry.  We haven't planned for this, but I have to admit I'm curious.  

As if to convince me, Elbe emerges from the kitchen with a wooden platter of buns fresh from the oven.  

Turkish pastries, but with French and Mediterranean flavors.

(Come on, you'd be tempted too!)

"They're savory, with lavender and herbs de Provence inside," she tells us, "and also some cheese and olives."

She had me at lavender.

But the thing is, I have certain routines, especially to start the day.  It's one way I manage my digestive issues.

Eating outside that comfort zone can feel, well... uncomfortable.

On the other hand, I've been working on my "flexibility muscles" for both mind and body.  

Why?  Being flexible is necessary for travel.

I want to travel.  
I love to travel.  
I want to love traveling!

(It's just uncomfortable sometimes.)

So I'm practicing...

I give into the buns.

As we unexpectedly take a seat -- instead of taking our coffees to go -- I relax into the pastry.  

Feel the butter on my fingertips. 

Taste the tangy olives, the subtle herbs. 
Watch crumbles of feta fall onto my plate.

Mark and I talk about how taste creates experience.  How it can define a place as much as, or more than, our other senses.

How taste and travel go together.

I tell him about a trip I took to Bordeaux in 2010, the summer before my accident.  

I was braver back then.  Fearlessly independent.  More flexible.  Less clingy to routines.

I biked everywhere.  Hiked everywhere.

Ate everything!

Each morning I set out to discover what the locals were eating for petit-dejeuner, and that's what I'd order too.

But even back then, I was just one person -- and a petite 90-pounder at that.  Although I wanted to taste everything, I just didn't have room to put it!  

One morning I sat in the window of a local café watching some teenagers seated outside.

As I savored my own chausson aux pommes, I observed their fantastic spread:

du jus d'orange
du chocolat chaud
du thé
du café
du gateau
des pains
du jambon
des fromages
des oeufs!

"It was all so spectacular," I tell Mark, "I recorded their entire meal in my journal!" 

When I get home, I search out that very page...

...it turns out to be 2 pages!!

Thirteen years later, I can still taste that morning.  I still remember that meal like it was yesterday.

Maybe it's because of my own challenges that eating something new feels so special.

It's like freedom.  Like setting worry aside, just for the moment.  Like making room for uncertainty and welcoming it in.  

Mark and I finish our pastries.  And before I know it, I'm back home again.  

But taste is travel.  

And this morning's adventure made an old route feel new again.  

Like we left our neighborhood -- and ventured much, much further.

Bordeaux 2010 :)

Cookie Bar

When you see a sign like this, you just have to go in!

I mean, right??

An errand this week takes me to Doylestown.  It's ridiculously far from the city, so once I'm there, I have to at least take a little stroll.

That's when I see the Cookie Bar.  

I take in the vibrant mural, the sky blue shutters, and the little white building that houses this delicious idea.  My mind goes wild with the potential of it all.

What is a Cookie Bar?
Is it a bar that serves cookies?
Or a design-your-own-cookie assembly line?

I imagine a bartender in a baker's cap, a rainbow-tiled bar top, and of course, an array of "top shelf" milks and syrups that would line the wall behind it.

But wait, maybe it's not that kind of bar at all...

Maybe it's like a salad bar -- for cookies!  Yes, that makes more sense!!

Just picture it.  

A self-serve counter lined with neat scoops of cookie dough.  Chips, candy, nuts, and berries in bright little bowls.  And at the end of the bar, the pièce de résistance: a bake-your-own-cookie machine -- a cross between an Easy Bake Oven and that "conveyer belt toaster thingy" at the Comfort Inn! 

I'd be fine either way.  With a Cookie Bar, you can't go wrong!

Finally I venture inside and...

Well... there are cookies.  And they are cut into bars.  There are some regular ones too, just freshly made.  They look good. They smell good.

I take a few home to try.  My dad samples one, and he likes it. 

Yet I can't help feeling a tad let down.  

It's a good bakery.  I'm glad I didn't pass it by.

It just couldn't quite compete with all the hype... in my head. :)

Years ago, my cousin Brett and my friend Kym would talk together about starting a business.  

An IDEA business.

They'd start a company whose sole purpose was to produce ideas for other people.  (I believe they were planning to sell them, but they never got that far!)

As they talked about it, their inventory of ideas grew.  Creativity is contagious.  I was excited just listening to them!

Brett and Kym aren't here anymore.  I miss them both -- and their energy.

And I think of them in moments like this.

They would have loved the idea of a Cookie Bar!

So... 

If you agree, I've got an offer for you:

One idea.  A Cookie Bar.  Re-imagine it as you will.

I have enough on my plate.  

Go ahead.  Run with it.

You can have it for FREE.

What takes you back?

Bon appetit from Mile Marker 10,347!

Many miles ago, I wrote a little post called Back to Bacon. 

Back then, I was celebrating the Big 3-0.    

Mile 30 on this journey.

It felt like I had come a long way.  And also, not far at all.

I wobbled on the treadmill.  My prosthetic fit was iffy.  I was never sure where the next step would take me.  It was just too much to talk about.

So I talked about bacon instead.

Bacon took me back!

Fast forward many miles.

Mile 10,347 isn't about bacon...

Some Kind of... Cookies

Mile Marker 8460:

Don't just sit there, do something.  But what about when there's nothing we CAN do?

Mile 8,460 starts with a text from Nurse Deb, on the front lines. 

Granola for One

Mile Marker 8399:

Where are we?

Or more accurately, WHEN are we?

Oh.  Hello Saturday.

Anyone else feel like the days should be wearing name tags this week?  

One-Way Ticket

Mile Marker 7566:

I have a new philosophy:

It's better to go than not to go.

I'm sure there's a famous quote that could express it in a catchier way, but I don't want to take the time to search for it.  

19 for 2019

Mile Marker 7000:

It's New Year's Eve and I can't sleep.

Actually, it's 3 A.M.  The fireworks are finished, my friends have gone home, and the streets below my windows are eerily silent.  Yet I'm wide awake, restless, pacing around the apartment with my leg still on.

Why?

Being the Change

Mile Marker 6825:

Really November?  It's been 8 years.  How about cutting me a break?

Um, that's a "No."

As in NOvember... 

5 Ways to Escape (when you can't go to France)

Mile Marker 5042:

I live inside a construction zone.


My windows are coated with dust, and the air smells of exhaust.  The view from my balcony looks like feeding time at Jurassic Park.

And there's no escape...